


Barrier

by Annie17851



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, angst; Destiel; season 9 general spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:44:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2127291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annie17851/pseuds/Annie17851
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All they seem to do is argue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barrier

**Author's Note:**

> Cas is almost human; the hunt for Metatron and Abaddon is still on and life in the bunker is a little tense.

Barrier 

 

Castiel leans his head against the smooth coolness of his bedroom door and listens to the soft sounds of Dean’s footsteps making their usual 3 AM way to the library, where Dean will doubtless have left the half-empty whiskey bottle when he stalked off to his room a few hours ago. 

Cas has already been in his room for a few hours, too tired of the frequent arguing that seems to permeate the bunker lately. His stolen Grace is almost gone now, and Cas’s persistent worry about the Mark of Cain exhausts him more than his attempts to lighten the elder Winchester’s moods. Castiel has tried not to think of the Mark as something meant to override his own brand. The handprint Dean had once upon a time. But this new mark, this – disfigurement – on the hunter’s arm is nothing less than blasphemy to Castiel.

Last evening’s argument had started late. All three of them were tired, frustrated by the inability to find either Metatron or Abaddon. Most of the conversation had centered around what to do with them when they located them, and Dean, of course, was all for the immediate kill, while Sam and Castiel wanted to try to get information from them first. Sam was especially a proponent of finding out how to restore Cas’s Grace. Cas, for his part, wanted the Earth-bound angels to be able to go home. More importantly, he wanted the Mark removed.

That was all it was, but it got so heated that Sam finally threw up his hands with a “Whatever, Dean! Just whatever!”, taking his laptop, phone and beer and slamming himself into his bedroom.

Dean, more than a little disturbed that his angel wasn't actually on his side, slammed the whiskey bottle on the long table and glared ahead silently at nothing, until Castiel got so uncomfortable, was so unsure what to say next, that the angel simply got up and headed to his room, too, with a quiet, “Good night, Dean,” murmured softly over his shoulder. 

Cas heard Dean shift uncomfortably in his seat, heard the intake of breath that meant Dean wanted to say something. But Dean didn't say anything, so Cas kept going.

So now, sleepless, Cas has waited by the door for Dean to start his appointed rounds, as he is always wont to do when the air in the bunker gets so thick with tension that it’s almost impossible to breathe. Dean barely sleeps now anyway, and this makes Castiel wonder helplessly what else this Mark will do to him before this is all over. Cas is actually afraid it will never be over.

Head against the aged oak, Castiel watches silently as Dean’s shadow, thrown by the small night lights in the hall, dims the glow by the crack at the bottom of the door.

.........

Dean walks slowly down the hall past Sam’s and Cas’s bedroom doors, thinking sullenly that he should make a little noise – make sure they can’t sleep if he can’t sleep. He pauses briefly by his brother’s room, leans his ear toward the door jamb, can just make out steady breathing and has to physically restrain himself from gleefully banging on the door to wake Sam. He doesn't, because it’s Sam. Because Sam is still trying to recover from the demon trials

Dean thinks the argument was stupid, like many of their arguments are. Dean is going to kill them, Metatron and Abaddon, no matter what anyone says. He has to concede, though, that getting Cas’s Grace back would be a good thing. Except for that tiny part inside Dean, somewhere Dean can’t think about, that wants Castiel to stay human. Stay here. It’s what makes him the angriest when they all talk about it, that Sam, and Castiel himself, want the Grace back. Because when – if – that happens, Castiel, Angel of the Lord, will leave. Flap his little feathery appendages and leave them- leave Dean – for Heaven. Dean won’t let himself think about how selfish he is. 

It hadn't bothered Dean a bit when Sam took his stuff and stomped off to his room. It had kind of bothered him when Cas finally gave up and left. It was the small ‘good night, Dean’ that made the hunter want to stop the angel, stay with him there a bit longer. Not argue. 

Dean doesn't pause by Cas’s door. Because if Castiel is awake, and hears Dean out here in the hall, he might want to talk. Dean does not want to talk to Castiel. Dean wants to go into Cas’s room and slam the angel against the wall and this twists Dean’s insides viciously, because Dean Winchester knows there is absolutely no violence in that want. Dean Winchester refuses to let his brain figure that bit out, and so he heads on into the library quietly to retrieve his bottle and go back to his room. 

...........

Cas waits a few more minutes, watching for Dean’s return trip, and he is just about to give up, try to get some rest, when he hears the soft treads in the hall. This time, though, the muted shadow stops at Cas’s door. Cas can imagine the sound of Dean breathing on the other side of the door, can memory-hear the beat of the hunter’s heart, all thanks to the remnants of his Grace. This Grace that just gives him enough to tear at his insides, drown the newly-human feelings he might be having in sadness and loss. 

..........

Dean finds himself stopping at Cas’s door on his way back to his room. Can’t help himself. Tries to be oh, so quiet. Because part of him wants Cas to be asleep and the rest of him, the slam-the-angel-against-a-wall part of him, wants Cas wide awake. 

Dean leans his arms against the door frame, one still holding the neck of the whiskey bottle, unknowingly mirroring the angel’s position on the other side of the polished barrier separating them. He rests his forehead against the cool wood, and that feels good, calms his fevered brain. “Cas,” breathes out of him, all but silent, an anguished plea in the dim hallway.

Tiny tendrils of almost-extinguished Grace caress him soothingly, as Cas answers.

“Dean.”


End file.
